Gaps Between the Floorboards
by Flaignhan
Summary: He has to find her. He must.
1. Chapter 1

**Gaps Between the Floorboards**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

She knows it's him before she even picks up. Nobody else calls her when she's drifting off to sleep in front of the telly.

Molly leans forward to grab her phone from the coffee table and slides her thumb across the screen.

"Hey," she says, rubbing one eye with her spare hand as she adjusts to the light.

"Go to bed," his voice says, by way of a greeting.

"Am I that predictable?" she asks, a small smile tugging at her lips. She likes that he knows her this well. Most of the time. Sometimes, when he's at his smuggest, it can be downright frustrating.

"Yes," he replies, the word drawn out in a way that says she knows perfectly well she's predictable. "It's late. You're on in the morning aren't you?"

She hums her confirmation and pushes herself up from the sofa, inhaling deeply to try and shake off some of her drowsiness. She picks up her discarded dinner plate and takes it into the kitchen, scraping the last sauce-stained grains of rice into the bin while Sherlock tells her about a case.

"Lestrade wants it solved quickly."

"Doesn't he always?" Molly asks, phone clamped between her cheek and her shoulder as she opens the dishwasher and drops her cutlery into the holder.

"Yeah but this time especially. No messing about, not with this." Sherlock sounds uncharacteristically serious, and Molly straightens up, her hand taking her phone once more.

"Serial killer?" Molly asks.

"Don't know yet," Sherlock sighs. "But it's...well, if we can get on it as soon as we can, then they won't have the chance to form a bad habit."

"Why don't you use the night shift?" Molly asks, her eyebrows drawing together. If it's this serious then they can't afford to wait for Sherlock's favourite crew.

There is a pause at the other end of the line, and she knows he must have weighed it up. "I only want the best. Anything else and it'll waste time, or we'll miss something important."

Despite the context of the compliment, her heart lifts at his words. She'd be lying if she said she didn't enjoy being his favourite.

"All right," she says, suppressing a yawn. "I'll try and get in for seven thirty and get a head start." She loads her plate into the dishwasher, and it clinks against the other crockery. "I'll see you in the morning," she says.

He bids her goodnight, and Molly slips her phone into her pocket while she roots around in the cupboard under the sink, trying to find a dishwasher tablet. Before she can grasp one, a cloth is clamped over her mouth, a strong hand pressing it against her face.

She holds her breath, but the chemicals are making her eyes sting, and her chest feels like it might explode. She stamps her heel down on a shoe, but her bare foot does little more than elicit a grunt of discomfort from the intruder.

She can't breathe.

She tries to force her weight back against her attacker, tries to slam them into the opposite kitchen counter, but she is held fast against him, and there is nowhere to go. She is so slight that she doesn't stand a chance against the broad shoulders and thick arms surrounding her. Her lungs fill with chloroform as she struggles.

She can't _breathe._

Molly reaches blindly behind her, in one last desperate attempt, but her grip falls away, her legs collapsing under her as her vision turns to black.

* * *

The Metropolitan Line apparently has no delays. The buses are showing up at the stop outside with relative frequency.

It's a quarter to eight, and she's _not here_.

Sherlock looks towards Lestrade, who is engrossed in the case notes, file open on his lap as they sit in the corridor outside the morgue, waiting to hear the scuff of brogues against lino.

"She'll be here in a minute," Lestrade says, turning the page, his eyes scanning through a statement. Sherlock had whizzed through the notes in the cab this morning, but he can't start thinking about the case until Molly shows up.

He tries calling again, but the call doesn't connect. He checks his signal, sees three bars, then huffs.

"She's probably on the tube," Lestrade tells him. "Just relax."

Sherlock can't relax, and so instead, he paces up and down the corridor until eight o'clock rolls around, and a burly doctor in a lab coat opens the door to the morgue.

"Scotland Yard?" he asks, his tone pleasant.

Lestrade stands up, flashing his badge before he moves forward to shake the man's hand.

"Where's Molly?" Sherlock demands.

"Off sick," the man replies. "Emailed the night shift." He pushes his round spectacles up his nose, and offers a shrug.

"There you go," Lestrade says brightly, and the man moves aside to let the both of them into the morgue.

Sherlock's shoulders are tense, and the more he thinks about it, the tauter the muscles become. "She would have texted."

"She's _sick_ ," Lestrade sighs. "If she's chucking up, you're bound to be the last thing on her mind."

" _No_ ," Sherlock says, and there is a tremor in his voice as he tries to force himself to stay calm. "I spoke to her last night. She knew this was important…"

"She's probably sleeping," Lestrade says with a shrug. "We'll go round and see her after this. See if she needs anything." He claps Sherlock on the shoulder, and Sherlock blinks. He wants to argue, but instead he bites the inside of his lip, and moves towards the slab.

The sooner this is done, the sooner he can get out of here.

Dr Pelley, as he soon cheerfully introduces himself, takes them through the obvious features in a brisk ten minutes. "Tied at the wrists and ankles," he says, indicating the welts in the pale flesh. "Cause of death was asphyxiation - she died before she was dumped in the river."

Lestrade nods, scribbling notes in the margin of his papers, his eyes occasionally flicking over towards Sherlock, who looks on in silence.

"Her injuries suggest she was sexually assaulted," Pelley continues, but she's clean as a whistle, no DNA to take away. The river must have washed it all away."

"Time of death?" Lestrade asks, his pen scratching at his paper.

"Well," Pelley begins, heaving a sigh like a mechanic who's about to give an inflated price for a trivial piece of work. "She was found last night...I think possibly she was killed two nights before that, so...Monday?"

Sherlock frowns. "She looks fresher than that," he says.

"Water," Pelley replies. "Keeps the skin looking…" he trails off, then tilts his head from side to side.

"Right," Sherlock says, impatiently. "And can you tell us anything that might actually be of use in a criminal investigation?"

Pelley looks down at the body. "There's not much to say," he shrugs. "That's the problem with mermaids."

Lestrade pulls a face. " _Mermaids_?"

"Found in the water," Pelley replies. "Mermaids."

"We're wasting our time," Sherlock mutters to Lestrade, with no attempt to hide his distaste from Pelley. Lestrade meets his gaze, conceding his agreement, but is no less amiable as a result.

"Well thanks for that," he says, giving a nod to Pelley, whose bald head glints under the harsh light of the mortuary. "We'll let you know if we need anything else."

Pelley smiles, zips up the body bag, then turns to ping his gloves into the nearest bin. A sharp intake of breath sounds from Lestrade. "That looks nasty," he says, gesturing to three fine red lines on the side of Pelley's head. "You been in the wars?"

Pelley lets out a little chuckle. "No," he says. "Just cat sitting for a friend. Turns out I'm not that much of a cat person."

Lestrade gives an 'oh' of understanding, and tucks his papers back into his file.

"Can we _go_?" Sherlock is already at the door. His impatience is bordering on mania. He's already wasted so much time on this stupid, dead end case.

* * *

She wakes to darkness, the side of her face resting against something hard and rough. In the blackness, her eyes cannot focus, but her brain slowly starts to slot the pieces together.

Her first instinct is to panic, but her second is to keep calm. She fights an internal battle as her heart races in her chest but she knows, she _knows_ she must use her brain, and she cannot do that if she's terrified.

Molly takes a few deep breaths, trying to ignore the fact that her wrists and ankles are bound tightly together, so tightly that she's worried about her circulation. _No_. She cannot worry about her circulation. Her circulation is no good to her if she can't get out of here.

She wonders what the time is, tries to gauge it by the bitter dryness of her mouth, but that could just as easily be a side effect of the chemicals.

Either way, it won't be long before Sherlock realises something's wrong. It had been late when he'd called - the Newsnight credits had been rolling, and she'd agreed to meet him earlier…

Her head hurts, and she closes her eyes, resting her forehead against what she thinks is concrete. When she opens her eyes again, she looks in front of her, and can see thin strips of light running in parallel lines through the darkness. She cranes her neck so she can see above her, and realises she's underneath some floorboards.

The revelation does nothing for her state of mind, and her pulse quickens, her breaths coming sharp and shallow.

He'll find her. He has to.

But all the same, tied up and in the dark gets a lot worse when it's tied up, in the dark, and trapped beneath the floorboards.

Her dread is interrupted when she realises that there's something hard digging into her hip. She shifts on the floor as best she can, trying to feel the object with the top of her thigh. It's thin, and rectangular, with rounded corners.

She bites her lip with anticipation, then rolls over, wiggling and squirming until her phone falls out of her pocket with a clatter. She freezes, the sound so loud amongst the silence, and she listens for footsteps, the scrape of a chair, for anything that might suggest that there's someone keeping watch.

There's nothing, however, and she rolls back onto her front, wriggling down to where her phone has landed. The motion causes the hem of her top to ride up, the concrete grazing the flesh of her belly as she moves. It's a small price to pay.

Molly presses her cheek to her phone and identifies the back of the case. She can't hold in her exasperated sigh, but then she picks it up with her teeth, grit and dust gathering on her lower lip as it brushes against the floor. With a flick of her head, she flips the phone over, then presses her nose against the home button.

She fights the urge to close her eyes at the sight of the glaring light. The time is eight twenty-five, her battery is on sixteen percent, and her signal is showing no service.

It feels like a cruel joke.

He _will_ find her though. He'll find her all the same.

She pushes her phone away from her, then wriggles after it, checking the signal again to see if the change of a few feet has made much of a difference.

It hasn't.

Molly presses the home button again, then awkwardly types in her passcode with the tip of her nose, careful not to waste any chances on inaccuracy. She opens the messages app, and prods Sherlock's name, opening up their most recent conversation.

She tries something simple to start with, hoping that the smaller the message, the more likely it is to make it.

 _Help_

It takes her a few goes to hit the send arrow, but when she does, the message transfers to the space above, first with a blue background, then immediately switching to green. It's not the end of the world - there's no wifi, but maybe it can conjure up a little bar of signal from somewhere?

The red exclamation mark appears next to the message, and Molly's heart sinks.

She has no idea how he'll ever be able to trace her.

* * *

He tries dialling Molly again as they stride along the corridor, pressing the phone to his ear, desperate to hear it ring. All he gets is an automated voice expressing its apologies for not being able to connect the call, and he thrusts his phone back into his pocket, his mood darkening. He quickens his pace, Lestrade giving in to a little half jog every dozen steps to keep up.

Sherlock gets into Lestrade's car, slamming the door behind him. He tries texting Molly while Lestrade dumps his things in the back seat.

 _Where are you?_

His phone makes a swooshing noise as the message launches itself into the ether, and the little grey writing appears underneath - _sent_. He watches it while Lestrade fastens his seatbelt, but it doesn't change to a neat little _delivered_. The screen cuts to black as the engine stutters into life. Sherlock stares ahead, and can feel Lestrade's eyes on him.

"All right," Lestrade sighs, relenting. There must be something eating away at him too, now. He flicks the switch on his dashboard and blue lights begin to flash, a siren wailing overhead.

They make it to Molly's, and Sherlock opens the car door before Lestrade has even attempted to park. He hurries up the steps to the front door, pulling his keys from his inside pocket and shoving well worn brass into the lock.

His heart pounds in his chest as he gets to the second door, and he hurriedly unlocks it, pushing it open and half expecting to see her standing there in her pyjamas, her face tinged green with nausea as she cradles a sick bowl.

The flat is empty. He knows it.

" _Molly_?" he can't keep the panic from his voice, and he shoves open the door of the lounge. He moves onto the bedroom, and then the bathroom, and by the time Lestrade has joined him, he's in the kitchen, staring at the open dishwasher, and the box of tablets spilling from the cupboard under the sink.

Sherlock turns to Lestrade, his teeth gritted together.

"I _told you_ ," he whispers. "I _fucking_ told you." He doesn't care that his eyes are prickling, doesn't care that his legs are trembling as he tries to stay upright. He feels like he is drowning, like he is being dragged to the depths of the ocean, and will never see the light of day again.

He storms back to the hallway, to find Molly's coat and bag hanging on the hooks. When he goes into the bedroom once more, her presses his hand against the sheets. There's no evidence that she slept there last night.

"I _will_ call this in," Lestrade says, pulling his phone from his coat pocket, "but we have to be _sure_ that she's not just nipped out to the shops." He doesn't want to believe it, but his ridiculous optimism has already cost them over an hour.

Sherlock fixes him with an icy look, then points to Molly's bedside cabinet. "Her phone's not plugged in, and it's not picking up. So either it's out of battery or doesn't have any signal, which is a bit _extreme_ for a quick jaunt to the shops."

He leaves the bedroom and returns to the hallway, where Molly's shoes are neatly lined up. "All of her shoes are _here_ , barring those at the bottom of her wardrobe that she wears for special occasions. Either she's bought some new shoes - unlikely given that these," he jabs a pair of fringed brogues with his toe, "were new last month." His brain is firing off a thousand thoughts a second and he can't hold on to any of them. He needs to treat this like a normal case so that he can solve it, and find her before it's too late. But it's _not_ a normal case, and with every passing second he is being dragged deeper into the abyss of fear and guilt.

He knows this is his fault, somehow.

Lestrade is watching him, his expression heavy, his face pale. Sherlock can identify the feeling, the shellshock of something hitting so close to home. He knows it better than most, but this, _this_ is unacceptable. Not Molly, not her, not _ever_.

If Lestrade calls it in, then it becomes a case, and it becomes real.

"She wouldn't leave her dishwasher open," Sherlock says softly, and he swallows the lump in his throat.

Lestrade nods, then makes the call.

Sherlock can't even bring himself to text John. He doesn't have time to get the gang together.

He has to find her. He must.

* * *

According to the time on her phone, it's been half an hour, which is enough for another three percent of her battery to dwindle away.

She's managed to stay relatively calm, given the circumstances. Molly knows that Sherlock will have realised she's gone by now, even if the case is taking up ninety percent of his brain space, there'll be _something_ niggling away at him.

She hopes.

She has to put her faith in him, because if anyone is ever going to find her, here beneath the floorboards in some unknown building, it's him.

Her signal is still non-existent, but then an idea blossoms, and she jabs the phone with her nose and inputs the password. Her neck is getting sore; two goes to get it right this time. She needs to be careful she doesn't lock her phone altogether.

She has to scoot a little further along to be able to reach the settings button, then squints through the glare while she tries to locate the wifi. If she's still in the city, there's bound to be some sort of wifi she can connect to, some cafe, or a tube station, or anything at all. She'd give anything for a signal.

Her breath catches in her throat when she sees a nearly full wifi signal, with no padlock icon next to it. But when she looks at the name, her heart shrinks.

 _The Cloud_

It's worse than 3g, worse than 2g, if that's even still a thing. Wifi so slow that she's aged substantially while trying to load a web page.

But it only needs to get a message to Sherlock, only needs to connect for half a second.

She leaves the connection buffering and returns to her messages, opening her last one, and pressing the red exclamation mark next to it. When the wifi icon finally makes an appearance, she hits _Try again_ and waits for the message to go.

She waits for so long that the screen goes black, and she rests her forehead against the concrete, her eyes closed as she waits, and waits, and waits -

 _Ding_

She opens her eyes, and the screen is alight. It's Sherlock, and she bites her lip to suppress the cry of relief that floods through her.

 _Where are you?_

It's only a few seconds later when she hears the whoosh of a sent message.


	2. Chapter 2

**Gaps Between the Floorboards**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

 _Help_

A chill spreads through him, and Sherlock's eyes flick to his previous message - _Delivered._

It's something at least. She's alive, and she's managed to get in touch.

He strides over to Lestrade, and shows him the message while he's on the phone to Scotland Yard. He nods, then updates the person on the other end of the line who's coordinating their efforts.

He has never typed a text so fast in his life. His thumbs hammer at the keyboard, desperate to keep the conversation going.

 _Tell me everything you can. Clues to location, sights, sounds, smells. Do you know who took you?_

He waits with bated breath as the message hovers in the no man's land between sent and delivered. Sherlock goes into the living room, ruffling his hair with one hand as he walks, as though his brain is jumbled and a little encouragement will present a fully formed solution to him.

Molly's laptop is sitting on the coffee table, its smooth aluminium case reflecting the sunlight pouring in through the window. He knows the reply might take a while, and so he grabs it, dropping onto the sofa as he flips open the lid.

If he can log in to Molly's phone account, he can trace its location, and they can go and get her, and then he can make sure that whoever did this is suitably dealt with.

It's easy to access the account. He knows most of Molly's passwords, more out of necessity than carelessness, just as she knows his. He clicks through to the tracker, but when the map loads, it does so with a large translucent blue circle covering the whole of London and beyond. Given the wide area of coverage, she could be anywhere. It's not even a guarantee that she's within that highlighted zone, just that it was the last time her phone had been able to pinpoint a rough location.

She must be somewhere with little to no signal, which was a given, after the amount of time it took his text message to reach her. But that could be anywhere, it could be a basement, or a particularly dense concrete building, or it could be the middle of nowhere.

It feels like she's further away than ever.

He closes the laptop and pushes it off of his lap, onto the sofa cushion. His mood has darkened, but then his phone lights up, and it's her name in bold font that he sees.

 _Habds tied undernfkoorboards quietyppp_

It doesn't take a genius to understand. It had taken her four attempts to send the message, and her hands must be tied behind her back - either she's typing without seeing or she's texting with her nose.

Being trapped under the floorboards presents another problem. She can't see a damn thing. It's clever, he'll admit, and it gives him absolutely nothing to go on. But there has to be something. There's always _something_.

He looks at her message again. It's _blue_.

She has wifi.

He opens Facetime and tries to make an audio call - if he actually gets through, then they can push their luck and go for video. If he can talk to her, the process will be a whole lot faster. It feels like he's suspended in limbo while his phone thinks about making the call. He stands quickly, moving closer to the window, even though he knows the problem is at Molly's end, not his.

The call stutters and fails, and Sherlock resists the urge to throw his phone against the wall. It's his only connection with her, and he doesn't know how long it will last.

 _Battery?_

He paces back and forth while he waits for the reply. He repeatedly presses the home button, just in case the sound of his shoes against the floorboards has drowned out the sound of his text alert, but no. Nothing.

 _11_

Sherlock's initial elation at the text takes a steep dive when he reads the lonely number it has brought him. They need to conserve her power. He has no leads, and it could be hours before he reaches her.

 _Sit tight. I_ _'_ _ll find you. I promise._

Lestrade comes into the lounge, his heels scuffing against the floorboards as he drops his phone back into his pocket. His face is drained of colour, his hair sticking in odd directions after he's tugged at it while talking to Scotland Yard.

"They're going to check the CCTV on the high street. Anything from last night that looks out of the ordinary."

Sherlock nods. He wants to blame Lestrade, shout at him for brushing off his concerns, but he knows it wouldn't have made a difference. Molly's phone didn't have any signal while they were down in the morgue, and she would have been long gone by then.

"Has she said anything else?" Lestrade asks delicately, the pointless guilt riddled through his tone.

"Her hands are tied up, she's somewhere quiet, and she's been put beneath some floorboards. Which narrows it down to...most buildings in the country." Sherlock stares at the fireplace, hunched forward, his forearms resting on the tops of his thighs. "Why _her_?"

"Everyone always asks the same, whoever it is," Lestrade says quietly. "Every girl who goes missing has a family, friends…"

Sherlock throws him a dark look. "You're not her _friend_ right now, you're the detective who's going to _find her_. I mean why _her_? What's the motive?"

"To get at you?" Lestrade suggests.

Sherlock bristles. It's possible, of course it's _possible_. It's dangerous to be associated with him in any way. But Molly knows that, they both know that. And still she sticks by him. He swallows, his phone loosely clutched between his fingers.

"They let her finish the call to me," Sherlock murmurs. "We were talking on the phone while she was stacking the dishwasher. I _heard it_."

"Okay, so they didn't want anyone to know, they didn't want anyone to call the police. It's not unusual for someone to wait to pick their moment."

Sherlock tears his eyes away from the empty grate. "Any forced entry? How'd they get in?" He stands, his shoulder knocking Lestrade as he strides past him towards the kitchen. The back door isn't splintered, and when he opens it, he can't see any damage to the lock. The windows aren't broken either, and so he goes to check the front door, mentally begging the universe for some sort of giveaway. Anything will do; an out of place hair, a scuff, the dirt from a shoe that's larger than a size five brogue.

He is disappointed by the front door, and with every setback, he feels even more lost. The sight of the cadaver from the morgue keeps entering his mind, but she is beyond saving. He can only get justice for her, but he can _save_ Molly. She won't end up on a slab, with welts around her wrists and ankles.

And then he has an idea.

"It's not me," he whispers. "It's _her_."

"What?"

Sherlock whirls around to face Lestrade. "Be honest, how many cases would you solve if you didn't have Molly examining the bodies?"

Lestrade thinks for a moment, his eyes raising to look at the ceiling while he considers the question, head tilting to one side. "I dunno," he says, waving a hand. "Less."

"Exactly," Sherlock replies. "And if you'd killed someone, and their body had been found, wouldn't you want someone completely inept working on it instead? Wouldn't you want Scotland Yard's favourite pathologist out of the way?"

"Your favourite too," Lestrade says, nodding. "You'll only work with her, and your cases get a lot of attention."

Sherlock brushes the comment aside. "Whoever has Molly also killed your victim."

"So we find the killer?" Lestrade asks, but Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, we find Molly." He diverts his attention to his phone and rattles out a text. "Get SOCO down here," he adds. "Tell them the kitchen and the hallway are the priorities."

"I've already asked them," Lestrade replies. "High priority. They should be here any minute."

"Oh." Sherlock looks up, his lips twitching into their first smile since the news hit him. "So you're not so useless then."

* * *

The space under the floorboards is illuminated, and Molly lifts her head from the ground, turning to look at the screen. The text is longer this time, cutting off mid-sentence with an ellipsis. She awkwardly jabs in her passcode with her nose, squinting as her screen gets instantly brighter.

 _I'_ _ve had an idea but we_ _'_ _ve still got work to do. Tried to track your phone_ _'_ _s location but don_ _'_ _t think your signal_ _'_ _s strong enough. Anything about the area can help. Anything at all, no matter how trivial. Tell me anything you can._

Molly lets out a breath. She has _nothing_ to go on, and she supposes that's rather the point. The bitter thought crosses her mind that she might die because _The Cloud_ is so awful at doing its one job.

But then her brain slams to a halt. She's an idiot. She's a stupid idiot who can only blame herself if she dies under these floorboards.

She prods her nose against the home button, then opens up the settings again. She clicks on the wifi, and there it is. A list of connections in the surrounding area. And if the names of the majority of the connections are anything like hers at home, they'll be the serial number linked to the router.

She touches her nose against the screen again, to give her a few extra seconds to make her manoeuvre before the screen times out. She rolls onto her back, and wiggles forward, so that her phone is level with her shoulders, and then her waist, and then, she manages to grab it with her numb hands. She feels around, trying to orient the phone as it ought to be, then presses two buttons at once. She hears the click of a screenshot, then tosses the phone back to the floor.

What she needs, more than anything, is for _The Cloud_ to do one thing for her. It just needs to send this screenshot, and then she can wait it out for Sherlock. Problem solved.

Molly wrangles her way through the rigmarole of sending a picture message, then watches as the blue progress line at the top of her screen inches along, getting her closer and closer to safety.

The screen goes black, and when she presses the button again, she sees that her battery has drained to four percent. A shudder of fear ripples through her, and she goes in for a second a message, one last one to let him know she'll be out of reach soon.

Her screen shifts as the message makes it into cyberspace, though it doesn't dampen her fear. There are no shops or cafes on the list of wifi connections, no named businesses which would narrow down the search so quickly. She's putting all her eggs in a basket made of gibberish.

She pulls a face at the red smear on her screen, and wonders if her hands are bleeding. She can barely feel them, her constraints are so tight, but when she runs her thumb along her fingertips, she can feel something dry, and crusty.

Molly sniffs at the smear, but there's so little of it, and so much dust and grit under these floorboards that it's hard to pick anything out. She doesn't think it could be anything else, and as she racks her brains, she realises that it's not hers.

In those final moments before the darkness had consumed her, she had reached behind, and dragged her nails down the side of her attacker's head.

* * *

"We've got her," Sherlock breathes. Relief floods through him, the tension evaporating in a single heartbeat.

"Where?" Lestrade asks, his voice sharp as he crosses the distance between them in two strides. He cranes his neck to look at Sherlock's phone, and Sherlock shows him the list of wifi connections near Molly.

"Oh good _girl_ ," Lestrade says, then adds, "forward it to me and I'll send it back to HQ, get a location on them."

Sherlock copies the message, but as soon as he's sent it, another one pops up from Molly.

 _Battrey 4 u can catvh himnwhen u find me have dna_

Sherlock's heart beats fast, hammering in his chest while he batters out his next text.

 _How?_

He grips the phone tightly while he waits for the response, praying that it reaches her before the four percent drops to zero.

He has an inkling, but he needs her to confirm. Just one word from her and he'll be able to find her. Just one. It's all he needs.

The SOCOs are starting to arrive, the blue lights of the marked cars flashing through the window. Lestrade goes out to brief them, and once he's in conversation, Sherlock slips out of the flat and down the road, checking his phone every few seconds for the message he is so desperate to receive.

The more he thinks about it, the more likely it becomes, and the more idiotic he feels. He's had too many distractions today, too many elements muddying the water for him to be able to see clearly.

Clean as a whistle indeed.

His text alert sounds, as he rounds the corner into the next street. He stops dead, then reads the word he's been waiting for.

 _Nails_

* * *

There must be a loose board somewhere, or some sort of trap door.

Molly rolls onto her back, her phone dead and useless to her now. She's beginning to think she might have to get herself out of this one.

She tries to curl her legs up to her chest, so she can brace her feet against the underside of the floorboards and push, but she doesn't even have the space to do that. The most she can do is push her knees against the wood, but even then she can't get herself into a strong enough position to budge anything. She can barely cause the wood to creak.

She tries to kick the floorboards, but all she does is succeed in scraping the skin on the top of her feet, and she knows that a bruise will inevitably form. She curls her toes, wondering if she is numb from the cold or from her ankle bindings. Without much feeling in her feet, it's hard to tell, and so she tries to press with her knees again.

Molly wonders how long it will be before someone comes back for her. She assumes the intention is to come back, eventually, and not to just leave her here to rot.

She wishes she could still text Sherlock, or at least read his messages. Reread his promise to find her, because here, in the dark, she can't imagine those words in his voice. Fear is creeping in, now that she is so very alone, and so very trapped. She's too scared to even call out, in case she the only attention she gets is from someone who's waiting for her to wake up.

Molly lies in the dark, her hands digging into the small of her back, as she stares up at the gaps in the floorboards.

* * *

"We need the warrant to come through before they'll release customer addresses," an exasperated voice says. "And it's coming, but we don't have it yet."

"A kidnapped woman has sent us the only means of locating her," Greg says for the hundredth time. "And there's someone at Virgin, or Sky, or BT who's digging their heels in and saying 'oh well that's really unfortunate but I'm not going to help until I have a piece of paper, by which time she might be dead.' Is that what they're saying?"

"Data protection," the other voice says. "It's a serious business."

Greg swears, kicking a discarded drinks can off of the pavement and into the road. "Put me through to whoever you're talking to. And find out where Sherlock is, he's gone AWOL."

"Yes sir," the reply comes, and then the line goes fuzzy, before it becomes clear again.

"Who am I speaking to?" Greg paces up and down in front of Molly's flat, suited up SOCOs veering out of his way whenever he turns unexpectedly.

"Hi there, it's Erica. I'll be helping you today. Can I take your name please?"

Greg can't stop himself from rolling his eyes, and the reaction is apparent in his agitated answer. "Detective Inspector Lestrade. I'm the one who's trying to locate a woman who's been kidnapped by a violent criminal, and your lot are holding things up."

The chirpy Northern Irish accent isn't perturbed by Greg's response, and it briefly crosses his mind that her experience of talking down angry customers could be put to much better use in the police service.

"I understand," Erica says. "I really do, and if it were up to me I'd be giving you whatever you need, but we're bound by the law as well, so we just have to wait for that warrant to come through, and then you'll be on your way."

Greg bites his lip, counting to three before he responds. "This woman could _die_ while we're waiting for this." His words come through gritted teeth, the tendons in his neck aching from the strain. "These are extenuating circumstances. You've already had contact with Scotland Yard, you have proof of this being an urgent police investigation, and that there is a life at stake here. We need to know where she is, and this is our _only_ chance of finding her."

Erica sighs, and Greg knows he's pushing his luck. It's not her fault that she has to obey the law, nor does he wish for her to face the fallout if she _does_ tell him the location. But he rarely gets to _save_ people, and he wants to make sure he can do that this time.

Plus...it's _Molly_.

"Please," Greg says softly. "She's my friend."

He hears Erica fiddle with her headset. "Your friend?" she asks, and her voice cracks, just a little, her customer service facade faltering.

"Yeah," he replies, and he lets down the barricade that he has erected while he's been in case mode. He's forced himself not to think about it so far, forced himself to treat it like any other case, to keep his head clear and get the job done. But it's Molly, and it's been grinding away at him ever since he saw the abandoned dishwasher. "Her name's Molly, she's a doctor. A pathologist, actually. She's helped me solve so many cases, she's helped get justice for so many people. I can't lose her. I _can_ _'t_."

Erica clears her throat. "How long d'you think it'll realistically take to get this warrant?" she asks.

"An hour," Greg answers quickly. "Maybe more."

"Okay," Erica says, and Greg can tell that she's bracing herself, that she's thinking through what she's about to do, and weighing it up with the consequences. "Where are you now?"

"North west London," Greg tells her. His mouth is dry while he waits for her next words, and he stops pacing, biting his lip as he hopes against hope.

"You need to go west," Erica tells him. "Beyond the M25. With any luck, by the time you're there, we'll have the warrant and I can give you addresses, postcodes, signal maps, whatever you need."

"You're an angel," Greg says, and he moves towards the car, hope building in his chest like a slowly inflating balloon. "Can you liaise with the office? I need to get a move on."

"Right you are," she says, and she sounds a little relieved to have made progress. "If I lose my job for this - "

"Then you can work for me," Greg tells her as he ducks into the car. "Promise."

She laughs, and Greg thanks her again. He ends the call and sees the text on his screen.

 _He got in a cab, traced it to Bart_ _'_ _s._

Greg frowns, then starts the engine, and sets off towards the hospital.

* * *

Sherlock sets his coat down on the vacant slab. He lays his scarf carefully on top of it, then removes his jacket, and folds that neatly too before placing it on the pile.

"Did you forget something?" Pelley asks, the double doors swinging shut behind him as he walks towards Sherlock. He has a clipboard under one arm, and three scratches on the side of his head. It seems so stupid now. Cat scratches are thin, and they go deeper into the flesh than the marks on Pelley's head. Unless he's cat sitting a well manicured panther, then Pelley is a liar.

Pelley stops in front of the slab, his eyes fixed on the pile of Sherlock's clothes before he looks at Sherlock, one eyebrow raised.

"Oh that?" Sherlock says, feigning pleasantries. "I just wanted to make sure I have full mobility in my right shoulder."

"Why's that?" Pelley asks, and he puts down his clipboard on the slab.

"Because," Sherlock replies, forcing calm into every word he utters, "every time you lie to me, I'm going to hurt you."

Pelley's eyes widen.

"Severely."

Pelley splutters, backing away from Sherlock. "Now look here," he says, his face reddening as he raises a finger at Sherlock. "I've got no idea what this is all about so - "

Sherlock's fist slams into Pelley's face, knocking him off his feet as blood spatters from his mouth and nose. Sherlock steps over him, then grabs him by the front of his shirt and hauls him to his feet.

"That's a lie. You _do_ know what this is about."

"No - I don't - please - " he stutters, but Sherlock launches him towards the fridges. He smacks into the stainless steel and slides to the floor, clutching the back of his head.

Sherlock makes a mental note to be careful. A concussion is no use to anyone.

"Molly Hooper has your DNA underneath her fingernails," Sherlock says, and he crosses the gap between him and Pelley in two brisk strides. "Tell me where you've hidden her."

"You'll be arrested for this," Pelley cries, holding up his arms to protect his face.

"Shouldn't think so," Sherlock says, and he plants his foot in Pelley's gut, earning himself a gurgling groan. "Tell me where she is."

"I don't _know_."

Sherlock grabs Pelley's arm, dragging him forward so he can twist it. Pelley wails, but there's no one to hear him, and no one to stop Sherlock.

"Do I need to break your arm?" Sherlock asks. He lowers his voice, his suppressed anger starting to seep through. "You've taken someone I care about very much," he growls. "There is _nothing_ I won't do to get her back."

The crack is drowned out by Pelley's scream, but there's no hint of an address issuing from his lips. Sherlock heaves a sigh, then walks back to the slab, picks up Pelley's clipboard, and flicks through the pages. When he has found the name he's looking for, he chucks it back down, where it lands with a clatter. He moves back to Pelley and lowers himself to his haunches.

"Now, I know that you raped and murdered Shannon Bennett," Sherlock says, his elbows balanced on his knees, fingers steepled together. "And I know that you wanted to take care of the post-mortem so that you could erase any traces of evidence. I _also_ know that you wanted to make sure Molly was well and truly out of the way - given that she's so _very_ excellent at her job, she was bound to scupper your plans one way or another."

Pelley doesn't respond, and it seems as though he might be learning how Sherlock's interrogation tactics work.

"So, you tell me where Molly is, and I will leave you here. But if you don't, I will hurt you. If you _lie to me_ , I will hurt you." As he waits for Pelley's next words, Sherlock begins to carefully, and very deliberately, roll up his shirt sleeves.


	3. Chapter 3

**Gaps Between the Floorboards**

 **by Flaignhan**

* * *

Greg hammers the button in the lift, and the doors slowly grind shut. His impatience doesn't make the lift move any faster, and it dutifully stops at the next two floors, hospital staff and medical students filing out until it's just him, going down to the basement.

When he finally judders to a halt, he steps towards the doors, waiting just a few inches in front of them while they drag themselves open. As soon as the gap is big enough, Greg squeezes through sideways, the button of his jacket catching against the metal.

He looks in the locker room first - he's starting to wonder if Molly's assailant was able to access her keys while she was working, make a copy, and break into the house without actually doing any breaking. The room is dark and empty, the shiny red and blue lockers looking odd in a room with cracked plaster and well worn linoleum. If Sherlock's come to the same conclusion, then he's already examined the locker, or there's something higher on his list.

Greg leaves the locker room and heads towards the morgue, but he's only taken a few steps when Sherlock exits the double doors, swinging his coat round his shoulders and sliding his arms into the sleeves in one smooth motion.

"We need to go," Greg says quickly as Sherlock straightens the lapel of his coat. "What have you been doing?" He frowns as his eyes land on the dots of red on Sherlock's shirt front. "Is that blood?"

"Nosebleed," Sherlock replies, brushing past him. Greg turns on his heel and the pair of them head for the lift, Sherlock jabbing the button with his thumb as soon as he's within reaching distance.

"We need to go west," Greg tells him as they step through the doors and into the lift. He doesn't have time to question Sherlock's nosebleed story, not with miles of congested London streets to get through. He does file it away for later though, noting the absence of a crimson blotted tissue or staining around his nostrils.

Greg doesn't often notice the difference between his and Sherlock's paces, but now he is struggling to keep up without breaking into a jog. Sherlock strides ahead without saying a word, and even when he turns a corner, Greg can tell he's calculated the most effective angles to take.

"Erica says it's beyond the M25, so by the time we're that far she'll probably have the go ahead."

Sherlock's brow furrows. "Who's Erica?"

"BT woman," Greg tells him, but Sherlock waves the information away. "I was thinking we should try and get on the M4, get the blues and twos going of course."

"No," Sherlock says with a shake of his head. "A40."

Greg looks across at him as they hurry down the stone steps at the front of the building. He's bumped the car up on the pavement, on a double yellow line of all things. A traffic warden is eyeing it hungrily while he taps some details into his device.

"Hold it!" Greg yells, and he issues his badge. The warden looks up, scowling, and as Greg draws nearer he drops the volume of his voice to a more amiable tone. "Urgent police business, save us both the trouble, yeah?"

The warden mutters something indiscernible then skulks off. Greg unlocks the car and slips into the driver's seat.

"A40?" Greg asks Sherlock as he starts the engine. "You sure about this?"

Sherlock nods, staring straight ahead. "Positive."

"Should I even ask?"

"Probably not."

Greg's stomach clenches, but he puts the feeling to one side. Molly is the priority. He can worry about Sherlock later.

* * *

Her mouth is dry, her throat sore. She is simultaneously exhausted and itching with energy, desperate to get out, to walk, to breathe fresh air.

Her shoulders are ruined, the muscles and ligaments stretched far beyond their limit. If she taps the tips of her fingers against her hand, she can just about feel it, but her feet are like blocks of ice. Her brain tells her toes to wiggle, but in the dark, she's damned if she knows the outcome. She has pins and needles in both calves, and no amount of the limited leg exercises she can manage will abate it.

The longer she waits, the less hopeful she is that she will ever be found. She knows that's a result of darkness pressing in on her, but all the same, she can't shake the feeling that this is how it's going to end.

With the floorboards so close to her face, she can't avoid the feeling that she's trapped in a coffin, which is the least helpful comparison that could occur to her right now.

Molly tries to focus her mind on something more positive. She wonders what Sherlock is doing right now, how he's getting to the bottom of all of this. Maybe there's some clue in her flat, a bootprint, some hair, or another piece of evidence that will give him a snapshot of where she is.

But no, she thinks with a frown. Not a _hair_. She remembers the feeling of skin and skull, but not _hair_.

She turns her head, glancing towards her useless phone. She wishes she could have told him. It might have narrowed things down...to one of the hundreds of thousands of bald men in London.

A sigh escapes her, and she wriggles to try and get her hands into a more comfortable position, but it's impossible.

The world above her is still, and the building doesn't make a sound. There are no clanking pipes, no noisy gusts of wind squeezing through gaps in ill-fitted windows, none of the creaking that comes with a period property. Both her flat and 221B are full of odd noises which just get shrugged off, but this place is quiet.

She wonders if the walls have soundproofing, if this place has been designed for situations like this.

Maybe she should have laid and listened before. Maybe it could have told her a lot more than she thought it would. Maybe it would have helped Sherlock find her.

Molly closes her eyes and thinks about his text.

He'll find her. He promised.

* * *

The flashing blue lights make the cars flare as they move out of the way. Once Lestrade has got them out of central London, he puts his foot down. The noise of the engine isn't enough to cover the wailing sirens, which go round and round and round inside Sherlock's head.

It sounds like screaming.

He unlocks his phone and then starts tapping a text message to Mycroft. He needs to clear things up quickly and minimise any awkward questions.

 _Molly_ _'_ _s been kidnapped. Pelley - works in the morgue at Bart_ _'_ _s - is responsible. Raped and murdered a woman who ended up on the slab, didn_ _'_ _t want Molly finding anything to link him to it. Might need you to deal with him._

He clicks send, wondering if that will be enough, if he can sit back as they speed towards Great Missenden, knowing that there won't be anything to contend with in the aftermath.

He can't have Pelley walk off scot-free for both crimes just because of a few broken bones. He's dangerous, to Molly, to any woman that dare crosses his path, and he'll stop at nothing to cover his tracks.

Pelley needs to be stopped. For good.

The reply comes swiftly enough.

 _Have you got her? Let me know if you need additional resources and I can arrange._

Sherlock watches the dot dot dot of Mycroft's next message, until it forms a speech bubble.

 _How permanently do you wish for him to be dealt with?_

The reply comes instantly. He is not so childish as to demand an execution, nor is he so naive.

 _Life without parole. Category A._

He doubts Pelley would last long in there anyway.

He glances up to Mycroft's initial message, then adds:

 _With Lestrade. On my way to get her._

Mycroft must be in a particularly tiresome meeting, because his reply is instant.

 _Send the local police. It doesn_ _'_ _t matter who reaches her first, just as long as she_ _'_ _s freed asap._

Sherlock grits his teeth.

 _Lestrade doesn_ _'_ _t have the address. Waiting on a warrant. I have the address, but he doesn_ _'t._

The three dots appear, but then disappear after a few seconds. Mycroft's thinking about it. It's dangerous ground. Sherlock has crossed a line that he would cross a thousand times for Molly, but he can't afford to implicate Lestrade in that. It would ruin him.

 _How long until the warrant comes through? Do you need me to make a call?_

It must be a terribly boring meeting if Mycroft will absent himself to make a call on Sherlock's behalf. He must be desperate to escape.

 _It should come through before we get there._

He turns his phone over in his hands while he awaits Mycroft's response. The green signs whizz past, and the word _Uxbridge_ burns itself in white font onto Sherlock's vision.

"You need to come off soon. Head for Amersham."

Lestrade glances sideways at him, but slows down a little to give himself time to see the sign when it appears. The pitch of the engine lowers, but the sirens are louder as a result.

He knows it's stupid as he does it, knows that it's a waste of his time, but there is too much time stretching out ahead of him between this car and the place where she is. He types the text, the text that won't reach her because her battery is long dead.

But just in _case_.

It all spills out of him, transcribed through trembling thumbs as his anxiety swirls in the pit of his stomach. He has never felt so helpless as he does now, in the passenger seat of a police car, miles and miles away from her.

He presses send, because it needs to go, now that he's written it, it needs to disperse into the wifi and dart about as a signal.

But she won't get to read it.

His screen lights up, and for one moment, one heart-stopping moment, he thinks it's her. He thinks she's managed to preserve her battery so much that she's still within reach.

Sherlock's heart sinks when he realises it's Mycroft, his lungs deflating with the anticlimax. To make matters worse, he's being overbearing and unusually sentimental.

 _Look after her. Properly._

Sherlock ignores it and drops his phone back into his pocket. He shifts in his seat and closes his eyes, trying to block out the wailing sirens.

He'll get there, soon enough.

* * *

A headache is starting to set in. Molly's brain feels like it's pulsing in her skull. She wants to go to sleep, so that both time and the headache will pass, but she's too scared. If she is found first by the person who brought her here, she wants to be awake and alert. She won't allow him to take her by surprise a second time.

There's not a lot she'll be able to do, with both wrists and ankles tied. But she has a long time to think about it, and a decent headbutt might do the trick, if she can aim it well enough. She doubts she'd be able to knock anyone out, so all she'd really be able to manage is making her kidnapper angrier. On the one hand, it seems like a stupid idea, but on the other, it feels like a bittersweet victory.

On top of all that, there's the issue of her bindings. Even if she can get herself a few extra seconds, what can she possibly do? Hop about like a pogo stick?

Molly shakes her head and lets out a sigh.

It's got to be Sherlock.

She closes her eyes and waits.

And she waits.

And waits.

And then, in the distance, she hears it. A rumble, a car engine. Her heart rate elevates, and she lifts her head off the ground to get just a few inches closer to the sound. She can't tell, one way or the other whether this is good news or bad news, but it's getting louder, and louder, and then it stops.

She hears a car door slam, and then -

" _Molly_?" The shout is urgent, and frantic, but it's Sherlock.

"I'm here!" Her voice is dry and cracked, and she doesn't think he's heard her. But then there is a crash, the splintering of wood, and the rattling of glass, and the footsteps are near.

" _Molly?_ "

"I'm here!" she calls, but she manages to inhale a cloud of dust, unsettled by the gust of wind that sweeps through the open door. She coughs, her throat raw and rough, while the footsteps draw closer.

"In here?" His voice is softer now, less anxious, and Molly bends her knees, raising them up so she can knock them against the floorboards while suppressing her coughing fit.

"All right," he says, and above her she can see a shadow move. A light flicks on, and then there is a clatter of metal on wood.

"Use this." It's Greg. "You okay Molly?"

Molly manages to clear her throat and make a faint sound of affirmation, as the end of a crowbar is forced between the floorboards a little to her right. There is a creak as the wood is prised up, and then light floods in as the board is roughly pulled away by Greg.

She squints through the gap to see Sherlock, levering the crowbar again, and the space doubles.

"Get something to cut her free," Sherlock says, and Greg disappears while another board comes up, and then another. She can hears drawers and cupboards being opened and slammed shut, and when the hole in the floor is big enough, Sherlock throws the crowbar to one side and drops into the gap. Then his hands are on her and he's pulling her up into a sitting position.

Greg's back, and he rushes over with a pair of scissors. Sherlock snatches them from him and moves around to Molly's back, crouching down so that he can work the blades at the thick cords around her wrists.

"Bungees," Sherlock mutters. "No distinctive markings, constrictive…"

"Same as the other victim," Greg says quietly in response.

Something pings against the small of Molly's back, and some of the pressure around her wrists releases. Sherlock carefully unwraps the bungee, and soon her wrists are free. Molly sags in relief, her shoulders screaming with pain, and she is only able to feel that she is quivering when she presses her numb hands to her face.

Sherlock lifts her gently, so that she is sitting on the edge of the floor, and her legs finally make it out from under the boards. He crouches down in front of her, one hand on her calf as he looks up at her.

"You all right?" he breathes, and she nods immediately, even though the both know she is stretching the definition of 'all right' to its very limits.

As Sherlock works at the bungee around her ankles - bright green, as it would turn out - Greg disappears from the room again. There is the sound of a tap running, and when he returns, he presses a glass of water into Molly's shaking hands. He crouches next to her while she drinks, one hand gently rubbing her back, the other poised to catch her glass should she drop it.

The bungee around her ankles gives way, and Sherlock pulls the rest of it away, his eyes meeting hers when his hands brush against her frozen feet.

"It'll be fine," Molly says, even though she's certain she's only imagining the feeling of his hands because she can see them in front of her. He pulls off his scarf while giving her a look that tells her he can see right through her, and gently wraps her feet up, then tries to rub some of warmth back into them.

Greg takes her empty glass and goes back to the kitchen to refill it. Molly wiggles her feet inside the bundled up scarf, and is pleased to note that some of the feeling is starting to return. Sherlock sits opposite her, then looks down and leans forward to grab something.

Her phone.

He slips it into his pocket and continues to rub the warmth back into her feet.

"Are you okay?" Molly asks, watching him carefully. He's barely looked at her since he pulled her out from under floor, barely spoken to her.

"Me?" Sherlock says, his voice painfully steady. "I'm not the one who was kidnapped."

"That doesn't answer the question."

Greg returns and Molly takes the refilled glass of water from him, drinking slowly while she watches Sherlock.

Usually when he solves a case he is over the moon, brimming with jubilance and arrogance. But not today.

It worries her.

* * *

There is a blur of blue lights, squad cars, and officers milling around putting up tape. It passes him by in a haze. He wraps Molly in his coat and, when her feet are sufficiently recovered, removes the scarf from around them so she can hobble out to Lestrade's car.

She grips the sleeve of his jacket tightly, and both of them ignore the curious looks of the police officers around them. Maybe they don't get much excitement around here. Maybe the call from Scotland Yard with an address and a warrant was the most thrilling thing to happen all week.

Sherlock helps Molly into the car and once she's in, pushes the door shut gently. She's exhausted, and he can't stop thinking about Mycroft's text, and how ill-equipped he is to look after her. And properly, too. What does that even mean?

He circles around the car and gets in. Once he closes the door, the noise outside lessens, and he can hear Molly's breath, slow and steady. Every time she exhales there is a puff of mist on the car window. She's watching the activity outside, her elbow propped up on the window ledge, head cradled in one hand.

There are dark purple bruises around her wrists.

Acid rises in Sherlock's throat, and he has to sit up straight and breathe deeply to settle his stomach.

He could have lost her.

His stomach churns, and he leans forward, head in his hands, vainly trying to force his brain to think about something else. He needs that voice, the one that recalibrates him whenever he's overloaded, the one that helps him take a step back and see the bigger picture.

There is a shift of fabric on fabric, and then her arm is around his shoulders. Without hesitation he turns, pulling Molly close to him. He holds onto her tightly as he stares over her shoulder, through the opposite window.

It's a long time before he releases her, and when he does, she only pulls back slightly, enough for her eyes to meet his. She gently smoothes the lapel of his jacket, an unnecessary, but comforting motion for the both of them. The underside of her fingernails are stained with a faint red, having been scraped clean by an officer with an evidence bag. He counts himself lucky to care about someone who is smart enough to leave him a clue, who is smart enough to send him wifi signals to mark her location.

He'd not thought of that.

She is exceptional, and he's not ready to let her go. His heart is still beating frantically, his breath shaky in his lungs, and he just can't get rid of the anxiety swirling around inside of him.

He could have lost her.

He takes a breath and focuses on the weave of her cardigan, the little turquoise loops all bound together in uniform pattern. He remembers this cardigan from a hazy day in the lab, with the low lights glinting off of the conical flasks and measuring cylinders. He remembers it from the back of an ambulance while she shouted at him for twenty minutes straight while undertaking a thorough examination of him. He remembers it from late evenings, when he has escaped to her flat to get some peace and quiet, and she has thrown it on in response to the central heating clicking off for the night. It is a cardigan he has seen many times before, and will see many times again.

He didn't lose her.

And he won't.

* * *

He's in the kitchen when her phone blinks back into life.

Molly is curled up on the sofa in fresh pyjamas, her hair damp from a hot shower. She can smell dinner from here - a bounty provided by Sherlock's quick trip to the chip shop down the road. Her mouth is watering, and now that she's clean and rehydrated, Molly is thoroughly ready to fill herself up with carbs and then go straight to bed.

Her screen lights up, and from her seat, she can see the little grey box denoting a new message. She leans forward, moving to the edge of the sofa cushion so as not to pull the charging cable from the plug socket. Molly picks up her phone and unlocks it, then reads the text.

It's from him, of course. And it was sent after their last exchange while she was still trapped. He must have sent it after her battery had given up the ghost, before he had made it to the house. She's so tired that she can barely focus on the words. The grey speech bubble around it is long, stretching past the bottom of the screen, the black text so dense that at a glance it's like trying to crack a code.

She blinks. Refocuses. And then the words slide into place. The sentences become real and she is able to read her way steadily down the text. It was sent in a moment of panic, that much is obvious by the lack of punctuation and uncorrected typos.

It's difficult to process. She can't imagine any of these words coming from his brain or his mouth, and yet here they are, tapped out to her via his phone. When she reaches the end, she blinks, and goes back and reads it again. It's only when she's read it through a third time that she decides it must be real, that she's not imagining things after the stress of the last twenty-four hours.

Every time she reads it, it her heart feels like it's being distributed into the atmosphere, like dandelion seeds floating off on a gentle breeze.

She could read it every day for the rest of her life and never tire of it.

Molly tugs the cable out of the bottom of her phone then gets off the sofa, her slippers scuffing against the floor as she heads for the living room door.

As she reaches for the handle, the door opens, and Sherlock's there, with two plates of chips and a couple of buttered baps. The pair of them jump at the sudden appearance of the other, but then Sherlock moves around Molly and places the plates on the coffee table.

"Drink?" he asks, stepping towards the door again.

Molly shows him her phone, unable to conjure up the right words. But then, in her exhausted state, her mouth jumps ahead of her brain.

"I got your text."

He freezes, part way through a breath, his chest half inflated as her words make their impact.

"I…" he says slowly, blinking several times and looking down at his feet. He shifts on the spot, and Molly takes a step closer, knowing that he hasn't figured out where he might take his sentence.

"Did you mean it?" she asks, her skin prickling with nerves as she awaits his answer. This is dangerous ground - it could be one blow too much for her to deal with today. She's setting herself up for a fall, but then he looks up from the floor, his sharp gaze meeting hers. The faint line between his eyebrows tells her enough.

"I mean - " he begins, and then he falters. "Of course I - " But that sentence isn't right either. "It's…" He brings one hand up to ruffle his hair while he tries to navigate the murky waters of the conversation. "I wouldn't have said it if...you know, I…"

Molly does the only thing she can think of.

She cuts him off, mid-sentence.

* * *

 **The End**


End file.
